Writing Is Hard
by CastielhasthePhoneBox
Summary: Bestselling author Dean Winchester ends up on a panel with a pretentious douche bag whose name is actually Castiel. Hilarity ensues.
1. Pen Names, Panels, and Phone Calls

Dean Winchester hated writing. As his friend and sometimes brainstorming partner Chuck liked to say, writing was _hard_.

In particular, he hated when his publisher gave him impossible deadlines and sent him to conventions. Oh, and all this while he was in the middle of a writing block. He hated writing, but he loved it… and he had no idea what to do with his latest book. Staring at his computer screen, he let out a noise of disgust. He had read and reread what he had so far way too many times to count—hell, he'd probably memorized every word. And it was fine. All of it was just… _fine. _

Dean slammed his laptop shut a little harder than was probably advisable, unable to look at what was supposed to be a completed book. It wasn't. It wasn't even close. He had no idea what was going to happen next—he was as clueless about what was going on as his characters were. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. It had been like this for three weeks now and he was beginning to get desperate. So desperate, in fact, that he found himself calling his brother to brainstorm.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was strained, as if he were in the middle of something important. Dean chose to ignore his suspicion, too eager for some help—even if it was from Sam who, let's be honest, was not the imagination type.

"Sammy, listen," Dean started, not even pausing to say hello. "I need legal advice."

There was a pause. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"What?" Dean blinked and then realized what that sounded like. "Oh. No, no. Why do you assume I'm in trouble?"

Another pause and then, "Well, Dean, if you'd recall the last time you asked me for legal advice?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That was only once!" Dean defended himself. "And I mean, come on you can't blame me for that. You're the one who's always saying I need to do more research."

"Breaking and entering was not what I had in mind and you know it," Sam answered, his bitchface audible in his voice.

"That's beyond the point and _you _know it," Dean snapped. "Look are you going to help me or not? Pamela needs legal advice."

There was a sigh on the other line and Dean could almost see his younger brother leaning back in that big, lawyer chair of his, probably pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Look, Dean, I'm kind of in the middle of—"

"If a psychic made an unproved, possibly false accusation against a judge, how much trouble would she be in?"

For a brief moment, the line went silent, as if Sam had covered the mouthpiece. Then he asked, "Is this for your next book?"

"Yes."

"Wasn't that supposed to be done last week?"

Dean grumbled something that was incoherent even to him and then said, "Just help me out, would you?"

Sam sighed again in that Sam way he always did. "Yes, an unproved accusation against anyone could be considered slander. A judge would be even better equipped to take her to court. Who's Pamela accusing?"

Pamela was one of Dean's main characters, a badass psychic teamed with a hardedge cop. They solved crimes, and yes, Dean knew exactly how lame that sounded, but it had made the New York Times bestseller list more than once so it was good enough for him. Also, it was better than it sounded. Usually.

"Uh, well," Dean laughed. "A judge."

"That's all you've got?" Sam asked. Dean practically growled, a little offended by the doubt in his brother's voice. "You're not really calling for legal advice are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes, ready to snap something snarky at his brother before he remembered that he was really desperate for some help. He let his head fall forward onto his desk.

"C'mon, Sammy," he moaned, feeling pathetic. He wasn't sure he'd ever asked anyone outright for help, but he did it now. "Help me out, would you?"

Sam wasn't really helpful. When Dean said that his brother wasn't very imaginative, he wasn't exaggerating. Sam Winchester was brilliant and could come up with great stories for the jury stand, not to mention the most epic research, but ask him about a book and he was lost.

"I don't get why you're asking me," Sam whined, after being badgered with random questions (the answers to which were completely unhelpful by the way). "You just need brainstorming. Why don't you call Chuck or Jo? You know I'm not good at this."

He wasn't. But…

"They're tired of me 'fishing'," he muttered. "That's Jo's word, not mine."

Yet another sigh. "Look, Dean. I don't think I can help you with this one, I'm sorry. Besides, don't you have a flight to catch?"

Dean scowled, then frowned and looked at his watch.

"Shit." He had to be at the airport in half an hour. "I'll talk to you later."

Sam started to say something, but Dean had hung up already.

- -  
"You tried to get _Sam _to brainstorm with you?"

Dean ground his teeth together and shifted his bag more firmly up on his shoulder. Chuck was _laughing_ at him—laughing at _him_! Chuck, who at eleven o'clock in the morning already seemed tipsy. Chuck, who said he got his ideas from dreams and headaches.

"You really must be desperate," the other writer chuckled. They walked toward the concierge of the fancy hotel where the convention was being held, both out of place in their grungy clothes. Luckily, writers aren't known for all being impeccably dressed, so it wasn't so bad, even if the lady at the desk looked a little weirded out when she handed Chuck his key. (Apparently Dean's clothes didn't bother her much, however, since she slipped him her number with his key. He pocketed it for future reference…)

"Whatever, dude," Dean growled, deciding to move the topic away from himself. "How's your series going? Have your crime fighting brothers found that demon yet?"

Chuck shot him an offended look and said, "Dean, do you even read my books? They got him forever ago!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've been sort of busy, Chuck," he replied, partially annoyed and partially embarrassed to admit that he really hadn't gotten around to reading his best friend's books in a while.

"You know Jo'll be here," Chuck started, smoothly shifting topics again. "And Ellen."

Dean didn't think his wince was visible, but he couldn't be sure. He and Jo had come very close to flings more than once—the girl had had a crush on him for years, and yeah, she was pretty hot—but she was also his publisher's daughter, as well as a travelling (and seriously hard hitting) journalist. So if things were a little awkward , well… it wasn't a surprise.

"I figured," Dean murmured, hitting the up arrow on the elevator. "Have you gotten a look at the schedule yet?"

Chuck shuffled through his duffle bag for a moment, found his flask (and took a swig before putting it back) and then pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Dean snatched it as the elevator doors slid open, trying to smooth it out enough to read it. They stepped inside, followed by someone else whom neither acknowledged.

"What've you got?" Chuck asked, peaking over Deans shoulder and losing his balance momentarily as the momentum of the elevator picked up.

Dean grumbled, "Looks like Rebecca Rosen will be here, giving a talk about the homoerotic subtexts of… _your _books."

He was laughing too hard to continue, so Chuck snatched the paper back and read aloud, "And you'll be doing a panel with Castiel."

Dean snorted. "Castiel? What kind of a pretentious douche bag writes as _Castiel_?"

They were both laughing hard enough that it took them a moment to notice the other man in the elevator shifting uncomfortably and clearing his throat.

"That would be me," the man rasped, his voice low and gravelly. Dean turned more slowly than was probably necessary, his ears hot. The man behind him was a handsome dark haired man who looked more like a tax accountant than a novelist, but it was the sharp blue of his eyes that caught Dean and wouldn't let him go.

"Oh."


	2. Actual Dickhead, Dean Winchester

Dean Winchester could be a real dick sometimes. He knew that, and he could live with it. Sam liked to tell him that it was a defense mechanism (to which Dean simply informed his dear younger brother exactly where he could shove all that psychology bullshit), and if Dean was in a particularly introspective mood, he could admit to himself that Sam was probably right.

That didn't mean that he was going to change, of course. It just meant that if he was slightly more of a dickhead toward the weirdly attractive _Castiel_… Well, he knew why at least.

Almost as soon as Castiel had revealed himself in the elevator, the damn thing had stopped with a cheerful _ding! _and the dark haired man had swept through the still-opening doors before Dean could come up with an actual response. And that's when Chuck started laughing so hard he lost his balance and ended up doubled over, clutching his sides and leaning against the wall of the elevator. Dean didn't think it was so funny.

He was embarrassed. Yeah, he wasn't a complete idiot. He knew he should have just kept his trap shut, but what was he supposed to do? Apologize? Ha! No, instead Dean Winchester did exactly what he did best: got snarky. And if his attitude was a little unwarranted, he wasn't going to think too hard on that.

"What the hell is this crap about having a panel?" Dean demanded, as soon as he could get his publisher on the phone. Sitting in the hotel's lounge—yeah, that was the kind of hotel it was; one with a _lounge_—next to Chuck, he didn't even bother to lower his voice. All the convention goers were slowly drifting in still, but the different events and activities would be starting soon. He needed this issue dealt with and fast.

There was an annoyed sigh and then Ellen snapped, "You might've known about it if you'd actually been taking my calls the last few weeks."

Dean grumbled something about trying to meet deadlines and then said, "And who the hell is Castiel?"

"Look Dean, I'm in the car on the way from the airport," Ellen told him, sounding distracted. "Can't this wait?"

"No!" Dean replied petulantly. "If I have to be on a goddamned panel with the guy—"

"He's an up and coming writer and we're considering taking him on," she informed him, her voice thoroughly annoyed. "So be nice because you might be seeing more of him."

Before he could respond, Ellen hung up on him, leaving Dean holding his cell phone awkwardly to his ear, listening to a dead line for a long moment.

"Awesome."

He turned to Chuck, who had been sitting next to him the entire time, typing away at his computer and trying to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping.

"Did you know about this?" Dean demanded, tossing his phone haphazardly into his own computer bag. Chuck was sipping at an expensive looking and obviously alcoholic something, continuing to look busy with whatever he was writing while Dean nursed a black coffee.

Chuck shot him a look and said, "I would've had to have heard the other side of that conversation to know what you're talking about."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Castiel. That guy in the elevator. Ellen's thinking about taking him onto Harvelle Publishing."

If the shocked look on Chuck's face was any indication, he was as surprised as Dean was. If Dean were for some reason still unsure, Chuck cemented his surprise by saying, "I didn't think Harvelle was going to be taking any new writers on for a while, not after the Ruby Incident."

As a whole, publishing houses don't really require much interaction among writers. Authors tend to be pretty solitary and all they need to do is send their work, talk to their editors. It doesn't require that much face time, if any at all. Unlike other publishers, Harvelle Publishing House was a family business. Ellen liked to keep her authors close—she made them go to events like this convention every once in a while, and even liked them to work on anthologies or short stories together. It was unusual, but Ellen was good at what she did. Her authors were bestsellers.

The problem was when her writers didn't get along. Ruby was, in Dean's opinion, a Satan-worshipping psycho bitch, and she didn't exactly have very many flattering things to say about Dean in return. The worst part about it was that she had gone and broken his brother's heart, nearly gotten Sam fired from his own job, and then refused to attend any events for Harvelle Publishing. That might not have been enough for Ellen to want to drop her, but leaving the sequel to what had been a pretty promising book undone for over a year? That was the final straw. Being a bitch was one thing—losing money for the publishing house? That was a whole other.

It wasn't terribly surprising then, that Ellen had made it clear that they wouldn't be taking on any new authors for a while.

"What the hell?" Dean finally said by way of response. "What'd the guy do—promise to marry Jo?"

That got a short bark of a laugh out of Chuck, before he fell suddenly silent.

"Dean Winchester?"

Dean looked up at Castiel, who he could swear had _not _been standing there a moment ago.

Dean cleared his throat, embarrassment at once again being caught in the middle of making a joke at the other man's expense—seriously, was this going to become a tradition or something?—making him at once flustered and rather annoyed.

"Yeah, that's me," he said shortly, wondering how he could end this conversation right there.

Castiel continued to loom over them, shifting awkwardly and only adding to the tension that was so tangible it had Chuck taking swigs from that disgusting looking drink he had (not, of course, that it was too hard to make Chuck speed up his perpetual slide into drunkenness).

"Uh. Well, I was thinking maybe we could discuss briefly…" he trailed off distractedly, probably because of the death glare Dean was shooting him. "…about the panel?"

He coughed and Dean wondered if the guy was going to be persistent, despite Dean's very obvious I'd-rather-be-anywhere-but-here look.

"What's there to discuss?" he snapped, probably more harshly than he should have. As it turned out though, Castiel apparently had more balls than had at first been apparent. Looking as if he had had enough of Dean's attitude, Castiel stood a little straighter and let out a breath, as if to expel any nervousness from before.

"I simply assumed that we were both knowledgeable professionals, perfectly capable of preparing for a panel in cooperation," he answered smoothly. "But perhaps a short discussion is out of your grasp, in which case I'll leave you to your coffee and your drinking friend here."

He nodded to Chuck tersely before turning on his heel and once again giving Dean a view of his backside as he sauntered angrily away. It was a long time before Dean remembered himself and shouted out an indignant, "Hey!" Castiel either didn't hear him, or very pointedly chose to ignore him because he continued walking without a backwards glance.

It didn't take much longer for Chuck to start laughing again, nor for Dean to make a decision. He was going to get back at Castiel if it was the only thing he managed to accomplish during this convention.

Decision made, Dean pulled his computer out of its bag and began jabbing at the keys harder than was necessary.

"I _hate _that guy."


	3. Two Nicknames and a One Idol

They say that you should never meet your idols—that they never live up to your expectations. Castiel knew that. He knew not to have high expectations. He had readied himself for weeks with the knowledge good writing didn't guarantee any sort of winning personality (he should be the poster boy for this fact). He had mentally prepared himself over and over again… but Dean Winchester was still very much Not What He Expected.

Castiel didn't know who They were, but he decided that he definitely need to pay more attention to Them.

Dean Winchester, author of Castiel's favorite series—the man who had actually inspired Castiel to break out of his shell and show someone his writings—was a complete asshole. He shouldn't have been so disappointed. He had spent nearly every waking moment since he had gotten the opportunity to come to this convention very decidedly _not _imagining what meeting him would be like. He had also definitely not thought over and over again about what he would say (something clever and quick witted, nothing at all like his usual awkward self). Definitely not.

…Okay. So maybe he'd thought about it a little bit.

But really not all that much.

Really.

He let out a sigh and dropped his computer case onto his bed with perhaps slightly less care than he should have and then flopped down beside it. The thing in the elevator really wasn't so bad. Everyone thought his name was weird, and he'd definitely heard plenty of creative (and not so creative) jabs about it. That he could get over. What wasn't so easily forgiven was the rude way he had been treated afterwards. How dare he make Castiel feel as if he was somehow inferior—this may be his first convention, but Castiel was anything if not sure of himself. He was comfortable enough in his own skin that jabs at his name, the way he dressed, talked… None of that mattered. He was good at what mattered. He could write.

So he shouldn't let it bother him, but…

It would have been one thing if the man had been awkward, quiet, shy, or even standoffish. Any of those things would have been better than the belligerent high schooler Winchester seemed to be channeling. Honestly.

He knew he should stop moping about it. This was his first writers' convention, and to be quite honest, he was still pretty excited. How often does one get the chance to discuss their passion with like-minded people (he was going to assume that not all of them were like Dean Winchester)? He was looking forward to meeting other authors and even the publishers—the very reason that he was here was because Harvelle Publishing had displayed interest in taking him on. He should be ecstatic. He _was _ecstatic.

He decided to go back downstairs after readjusting his tie (he had a bad habit of pulling at it when he was uncomfortable), annoyed with himself for worrying. He would go meet other authors and forget that his all time favorite author was a complete jerk.

In most other situations, Castiel was extremely awkward, but when a half hour he found himself surrounded by a small group of people who were just as interested in literature and writing as he was, he found himself actually talking. He talked animatedly and excitedly, pleased to find that he had successfully gotten the incidents from earlier today off his mind. That is, until one of the others, a pretty journalist named Joanna (she insisted that everyone call her Jo) called out to the very man Castiel had been pointedly avoiding.

"Hey, Winchester!" she said suddenly, as if she had just noticed him standing nearby with a beer in his hand. He grinned lazily when he saw her, said something to the woman he had obviously been chatting up, and then sauntered over to their group.

"Long time no see," he commented, standing over her as if he were trying to intimidate her. Instead of looking in anyway cowed, she put her hands on her hips and immediately started to scold.

"You haven't answered a single call in weeks!" she accused, lifting a finger to poke him in his (very firm and defined through his T-shirt) chest. "Or my e-mails! You _promised _you wouldn't turn into a recluse again. I've been forced to call _Sam _just to make sure you're still alive!"

Dean groaned and Castiel tried to look as if he weren't watching this all with a sort of morbid fascination.

"You've been calling Sam?" he asked, scowling at her. "Don't believe a word he says."

"Dean…"

He rolled his eyes, turning away from her before she could say anything else and then saw Castiel standing there. He tensed up immediately, but before he could say anything, Jo stepped in again.

"You've met Castiel, right?" she said, making it clear with the disapproving tone in her voice that she knew exactly what had transpired between them. As it turned out, Chuck could be pretty chatty when he was drunk (which was apparently most of the time) and had already told half of the convention what had happened. Dean's face looked pinched and Jo shot him an exasperated look before turning to Castiel with a much softer expression on her face.

"Don't mind him," she told him with a roll of her eyes. "He may have never advanced beyond the age of about seven—" this earned her a growled "hey!" from Dean—"but he's really harmless."

"Harmless?" Dean scoffed.

Jo shot him another look and then a mischievous smile crept onto her face right before she announced, "This is just how he treats people he has crushes on."

Dean gaped at her in horror and she continued, "Like I said. Seven."

She was called away suddenly by her mother and the other three they had been standing with cleared out as if there was a storm approaching fast, leaving Castiel standing awkwardly facing Dean alone.

"I do _not _have a crush."

Castiel raised a brow, for some reason highly amused by the admittedly childish tone in the other man's voice.

"I never said that you did," he responded, his lips twitching with the effort not to laugh.

"Good," Dean responded gruffly, looking decidedly awkward. He took a drink from his beer, as if to give himself more time before he said anything else. Castiel decided that now was the perfect time to ruffle the other man just a bit more.

"Of course, it is rather common for one to feel that he has to hide his true feelings with displays of anger," he commented seriously. "There's not shame in admitting that."

Dean actually sputtered, choking on his beer.

"Dude—I'm not—that's not—"

Castiel found himself laughing, harder than he had in a very, very long time (which sadly wasn't actually all that hard). Dean seemed to realize that he was joking because that pinched face returned again, as if at the realization that he was the butt of this particular joke.

"Ha ha, very funny," he said, raising his bottle to Castiel in a sign of what he sincerely hoped was good will. He took another sip and then smiled at Castiel for the first time, his eyes crinkling just slightly. They were green, Castiel thought suddenly. Like a forest in the summer. They brought to mind for him the way light cascaded through the leaves in the middle of the day, shining but only through a slight barrier. Dean's smile, however slight it was, lightened up his whole face, shooting strange little shivers down Castiel's spine.

It was stupid. He was still mad at the other man. There had been no reason for him to be angry with Castiel earlier. It had been rude and he hadn't even apologized. Castiel was still angry. He was.

Dean licked his lips then and Castiel silently cursed the other man for his good looks. He wouldn't forgive the man for just smiling—Castiel was not that shallow. He was still angry. At the very least annoyed.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice broke through the filters of Castiel's mind, pulling him away from his thoughts and bringing him back to the present. A present in which Dean was staring at him (probably because Castiel had been staring at the other man first) and had just called him _Cas. _

"Yes?" he said, glad that his voice came out steady. Castiel wasn't the capricious, quick-to-anger and just as quick to forgive kind of man. Nor was he the sort that developed strong feelings toward others quickly, one way or another. Yet, with one smile and a one-syllable nickname, Castiel knew he was lost.


	4. Blue Eyes and Angels

The first day of the convention went basically how all pro cons went. Lots and lots (and lots) of talking. There was schmoozing with editors and publishers, reacquainting with other writers—sharing editorial horror stories, complaining about writer's block, decidedly _not _talking about what was going to happen next in their stories—and fielding questions from new writers. Some of them of course had it worse than others. Dean for one was basically hounded all day with questions, most of which he politely (or maybe not so politely now that he thought about it) answered in vague non-answers, trying to convince everyone to leave him alone at least until his panel tomorrow.

That, unlike everything else, was new. Dean hadn't had to run a panel before, but he had the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like it. He mostly didn't like having to answer questions about his books, didn't like feeling as if he and his work were under a microscope. It didn't help that he wasn't getting any closer to having a good idea about where his story was going next and had been doing his best to avoid Ellen and her lectures about the importance of deadlines. He was just glad that there was no way in hell that she could have dragged his editor, Bobby, out to this thing. There was no way he'd have avoided getting an earful then.

Basically, he was trying to act as if this was just a normal convention and he was just a normal participant (which, let's be honest, he mostly was). The whole thing with Castiel didn't help much with that. He couldn't honestly figure out why he had been placed on a panel with _that _guy. After managing to escape for a short while in the middle of the day, Dean sat down for a few minutes and actually looked the dude up. The books he wrote? They made Nicholas Sparks look stoic. Sure, they were getting great reviews from readers and critics alike, but it was the sort of girly crap that Dean wouldn't be caught dead reading, let alone writing.

Maybe he should suggest them to Sam…

Then he thought back to what Ellen had mentioned about taking him on at their publishing house. It was weird. Why was he thinking about trading publishers? His last one was pretty small, but it hadn't stopped his books from making the New York Times Bestseller list.

Okay. So the panel thing probably had to do with the fact that Dean was their top writer (he wasn't being arrogant—not about this anyways—he really was Harvelle's bestselling author) and it looked like Castiel would be right up there with him. Maybe Ellen wanted to showcase her best, even if one wasn't officially hers yet.

Beyond all that, there was the fact that Castiel creeped Dean the hell out. Or at least he was going to tell himself that 'creep' was the right verb—nothing else made sense.

It was those freaking blue eyes that seemed to bore into him as if the other guy could read his mind and reach into his soul. Dean had had plenty of people look at him in ways that made him feel naked, and really who would complain about that, but never someone who made him feel as if his soul were laid bare with nothing more than a brief glance. It was freaking weird and Dean didn't like it. It wasn't like the man knew him. He couldn't possibly know what Dean was thinking, couldn't possibly know how quickly Dean had noticed that the other man had the fullest lips possible while somehow remaining distinctly masculine. He couldn't know that Dean thought he sounded like the other end of a sex hotline…

Dammit. He did _not _just think that.

Long story short, the first day moved along smoothly and was relatively enjoyable, or as much as putting a bunch of obsessive hermits in a room can be. By eight o'clock Chuck was thoroughly wasted, Jo had neatly fended off about fifty different attempts to hit on her, and Dean was slowly becoming a stalker.

It should have stopped at looking Castiel up. It should have, but it didn't.

Dean had walked into the lounge at one point, around dinner time, and found Castiel sitting at a table with Andy Gallagher, looking politely interested in whatever the stoner was telling him. Instead of reacting like a normal human being and maybe going over there and just sitting down, Dean had taken one look at the pair and marched right over to them before taking the time to think about what he was doing.

"Hey, Cas, come on," he barked, barely bothering to spare Andy a glance. "Let's go get a burger."

Andy sputtered something at him in that annoying high-pitched way of his, but Dean was already pulling Castiel up from his seat and leading him away.

"I suppose we'll talk later," Castiel told Andy over his shoulder, not really putting up any resistance over being dragged away. They walked in silence for a moment, Dean still holding Castiel just above his elbow before the dark-haired man finally spoke.

"I was beginning to wonder if there would ever be an escape," he murmured, his voice hushed and serious. Dean shot him a look and then grinned when he noticed the slight glint of humor in those blue eyes.

"Yeah, I think Andy's had one too many hits by now and doesn't know when to stop talking," Dean responded. "The guy's brain's totally fried."

The resulting chuckle gave Dean a much warmer feeling than he would ever admit to, making him want to find out what else would bring about that quiet laughter.

"So…Castiel," Dean said, trying the man's name out slowly. "Am I even saying it right? I mean, is it like Casti-el, or Casteel?"

Another chuckle that made Dean unreasonably warm and then, "No, you were saying it right."

Dean flushed, for some reason pleased that he had gotten it right from the start. "I mean, I know you get this a lot, but I gotta ask. What exactly were your parents on when they decided on that name?"

A frown. "They weren't on anything," Cas replied.

Now it was Dean's turn to laugh. "It was a joke," he told him, wondering how anyone could actually be that oblivious.

"Oh." Castiel shifted his trench coat awkwardly, reminding Dean that he was still holding onto the guy's arm. Releasing him suddenly, Dean coughed and tried to remember the thread of their conversation. Luckily for him, Castiel seemed to have remembered what they were talking about and realized what it was that Dean had actually been asking.

"My father was deeply religious," he said quietly, following Dean through the doors of the little restaurant that was attached to the side of the doors. Dean's brows shot up, making him wonder suddenly if that meant Castiel was religious too. It was probably best that they not have that discussion anytime soon…

The restaurant host saw them and, grabbing two menus, led them over to a booth with a view out at the parking lot before Castiel said anything more.

"My mother," he continued almost as soon as the woman vacated their table, "was, as far as I know, not nearly so much, but she was a religious studies professor with a focus on medieval theologies. Castiel is the name of an apocryphal angel."

"Huh," was the only response Dean could think of. "As far as you know? She's…?"

"Dead," Castiel confirmed stonily. As if to cut that line of conversation short, he pulled open his menu and held it up in front of his face to scan over the options. One look at the menu and Dean realized that the place was really just a slightly fancier diner. Which was really fine. It reminded him of his childhood, spent mostly in motels and dives all over the country. It wasn't a bad reminder, even if he hadn't stepped foot into a real diner in a while now. Sam, his usual meal partner if he ever bothered to go out, vehemently refused to go anywhere within a five-mile radius of any kind of diner. He had argued that now that they had the money to, he wanted to go to the nice restaurants that they had never even tried to go to growing up.

"I'm sorry, man," Dean said after what was probably too long a gap. "I get it. My mom died when I was a kid."

The menu across the table from him lowered slightly to reveal Castiel's face again and he once again felt the full force of that blue-eyed gaze. He wondered just for a second if the other man really were an angel, if he could somehow sense the feeling behind Dean's relatively flat words. Then he brushed that thought away because it was stupid. Even stupider than the weird feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he and Castiel now had some kind of connection, which was pretty damn stupid.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispered, so quietly that Dean wasn't actually sure he had said it. "I appreciate your empathy."

Real men don't blush. That's why Dean totally wasn't blushing behind his own menu. He was just reading the damn thing, not at all thinking about the way Castiel's words made him _feel_.

"No problem, Cas."


	5. Breakfast Partners

The day of their panel—the second day of what had been a relatively successful convention so far—started way to early and with a bit of a hangover. Well, that's how it started for Dean anyway. He couldn't say he was overly fond of the disorientation of waking up in a strange hotel room, but at least it was nice. God knew he had slept in his fair share of cheap motel rooms when he was younger.

He slapped a hand to his face, rubbing it up through his hair slowly, and wondered what time it was. He hadn't opened his eyes yet—didn't really want to—but his mouth was so dry he thought his tongue might fall out and he needed to piss like nobody's business. Still. He lingered a moment and thought about the previous evening.

Dinner with Cas. Castiel. (When on Earth had he gotten to nicknames with the guy?) Drinks with Chuck and Jo (and Castiel, but who was counting). A heated debate between Rebecca—"it's _Becky"—_Rosen and an editor whom Dean had never met before over the respective merits of different "ships". It didn't matter that Dean didn't understand a word of it, given that there were "ship names" and a hell of a lot of other terminology that he didn't bother learning. It was entertaining as hell. Then the editor had started flirting and she was hot, so yeah, Dean flirted back.

He definitely hadn't gone to bed alone last night, which is why it was sort of weird when he finally opened his eyes and realized that he was definitely alone now. At least there was that. He sat up slowly and a quick scan later proved his suspicions and allowed him to relax: the chick from last night was gone.

A trip to the bathroom and a shower later, Dean felt substantially more human. Which of course brought to mind all of his slightly less physical concerns. His book. The panel. Castiel.

Wait. What?

He didn't know where that last thought had come from. Castiel wasn't a concern. He was just a guy that Dean had only met yesterday. Dean wasn't the sort of guy who made friends easily though, so maybe it was that weird sense of easy companionship that was freaking him out right now. It had taken him years for him to even consider Chuck a friend and even then, Dean had to admit that the two often went months without speaking. The only person Dean ever kept in contact with on any sot of a regular basis was Sam.

Okay, so maybe Castiel was a bit of a concern. It was weird that he wasn't even thinking about the other man. Dean wasn't the sort to linger on things and it wasn't like there was even much to linger on. So they'd had a weird sort of start and then had dinner. So what?

Dean didn't want to contemplate what it meant that he was defending his own actions to himself. He needed coffee. It was too damn early to be contemplating his strange sense of companionship towards a man he had known less than twenty-four hours.

Downstairs the hotel had provided one of those continental breakfast things they do, with eggs in one metal thing, bacon in another, sausage in another… The sort of mediocre breakfast that was a long way from cheap motels but not exactly the Hilton either. It wasn't like Dean had had very many cooked breakfasts since the divorce though, so he wasn't going to be a snob about it.

He filled up his plate, grabbed a mug of instant coffee that was okay if he didn't pay it much attention and went to go sit at an empty table so that he could eat his food and ignore the world. Maybe it wasn't healthy, the way he had been liing the last few months. He should try to talk to people, start to get over the life he had had with Lisa—the one he hadn't seen crumbling until it was too late. Maybe he should stop burying the feelings. Sam had been whining about it incessantly since Lisa had asked him to leave, but that didn't mean Dean had paid him any attention. He had dealt with the loss of their parents and he could deal with the loss of his wife and kid. It hadn't mattered before that Ben wasn't his, but with the divorce months in the past and hardly any word from the kid, he was painfully aware of the fact.

"May I sit here?"

Dean looked up, shocked out of his thoughts, and saw—guess who—Castiel standing over him with a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, sure, go ahead."

He sat and they ate in relative silence. Either the other man had tuned into his dark mood, or he just assumed that Dean was tired from a late night, but either way he left him alone at least until he had swallowed his entire cup of coffee.

Then he asked, "How are you, Dean?"

Dean just stared at his unexpected breakfast partner for probably too long to be socially acceptable. It wasn't like nobody ever asked him how he was, it was just… it was the first time in a long time that anyone besides Sam had sounded like they meant it. Castiel's telephone sex voice, although no less gravelly, sounded so sincere that for a brief moment Dean contemplated actually telling him the truth. That he hadn't been okay in a long time and he didn't even know why. That his writer's block probably had more to do with his recent divorce than he wanted to admit. That he had realized that he didn't really have any friends, but couldn't be bothered to go find any even if he knew how.

None of that he actually said out loud of course. The very fact that those thoughts had even crossed his mind terrified him in a way that he decided not to ponder on too long.

"'M fine," he finally answered, chewing on a piece of toast. Then, because his mama taught him manners, he asked, "You?"

He didn't expect an answer much deeper than his own, but he should have begun to realize already that Castiel was like the freaking Spanish Inquisition. You never expected him.

"I'm nervous about the panel today," he admitted, revealing a very human side of him that for some reason surprised Dean, though of course it shouldn't have. Of course the man was nervous. He was new. This was new. Dean hadn't exactly done anything to assuage the man's fears so far and for that he felt a small pang of guilt.

"I don't even know what we're supposed to be talking about," he continued.

Dean shrugged. "Our books. What makes us bestsellers, what makes us tick. We only have to introduce ourselves and then they take over. Trust me. It'll be easy."

Dean decided not to mention the fact that he had never run a panel before himself, but he had been to enough of them to know that it wasn't so bad so long as you didn't get too nervous about it. Different people ran different panels and Dean knew that they had been put together because of how well their books were selling, not a whole lot else. This was a professional convention though, so that wasn't so unheard of.

"Look, you just gotta remember not to be nervous," Dean told him, waving a piece of bacon in the air for emphasis. Castiel's lips tugged up in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Dean decided not to think about why that made him feel oddly warm, nor the fact that it led to him spending the next several hours before the panel trying to figure out how to make him smile for real.

He didn't know how it happened. Dean really wasn't all that social. Yet somehow the morning seemed to melt away, shared by Castiel and his quiet but firm assertions that Oscar Wilde was in fact a genius, not an overly wordy asshole like Dean argued. They went to a workshop together and Dean pointedly ignored the look Jo shot him from across the room, deciding that he didn't feel like overthinking just then.

Which is how he found himself standing beside Castiel, who was shaking just slightly, about to go run a damn panel. You'd think, looking at the two of them, that they were about to face down the devil himself—they certainly looked grim enough. They weren't, of course, but Dean couldn't help but find Castiel's warm and slightly too close presence reassuring.

"You ready?"

Castiel turned to him and, before Dean could react, pressed his lips lightly to Dean's cheek.

"Yes."


	6. A is for Awkard

It wasn't like Dean was a homophobe. Heck, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't ever fooled around with a guy. But he wasn't gay.

Dean Winchester was NOT GAY.

Standing, gaping at the man with whom he would be sharing a panel for the next hour, Dean's mind went blank except for that one thought until it suddenly exploded with a million others.

Did he _look _gay? Did Castiel think he had been coming onto him with dinner last night? Oh god—did he do anything while he was drunk last night? No, he thought. He hadn't been _that _drunk. And he'd been with a girl. A woman. A very feminine woman. Who had a vagina.

Maybe Castiel wasn't gay either. Maybe he was just affectionate like that. Yeah, in fact that made perfect sense. Guys could just be friendly. And, come on, the dude was already awkward as hell. Maybe that was just a part of it…?

That was it then. Dean didn't have to worry about it because there was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Castiel turned back when he realized that Dean wasn't following him and tilted his head at him. It was the weirdest thing, reminding Dean of a bird, and bringing forth the thought that the other man was freaking adorable. In a totally manly sort of way, of course.

Coughing awkwardly, Dean did his best to paste on his usual confident smile before following Castiel to the table that had been placed on a stage for them to sit at. There were more spaces available at the table, thought they were not set up with microphones at the moment. Dean knew that some of the other panels that went on at this event included several more people. He wasn't actually sure why theirs only had the two of them but he didn't much care either.

They sat, Castiel with a slight attempt at a smile pasted onto his otherwise very nervous looking face, and then their knees bumped. What normally wouldn't have caused really much thought for Dean at all made him jump in an almost comical way just then. He coughed again, not sick but feeling like the new poster child for Awkward, and then scooted his chair just slightly away from Castiel. This earned another confused head tilt from the man, which Dean ignored.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Castiel asked.

God, that was a good question. Honestly, it wasn't that big of a deal. One little kiss, just a brief touch of lips to skin, and Dean was as flustered as a thirteen year old girl. What the hell? It wasn't like he hadn't had people randomly kiss him before.

Okay. So maybe it genuinely didn't happen that much (or at all), but he still thought maybe he was overreacting. It was probably because he just wasn't used to displays of genuine affection of the nonsexual sort from anyone outside his family. Even Lisa had never been all that affectionate and they were married for godsake. If he were completely honest with himself, he could even admit that it was so weird because of how much he had liked it. Dean tended to think of himself as a very sexual creature. He didn't cuddle or stick around—except in a few rare cases, and even then it wasn't necessarily his favorite thing. So for such a mundane and incredibly brief thing to be affecting him so much…

He needed to stop thinking about it.

The room in front of them was at least half full of people all looking up at their table expectantly. They were all convention goers, which at this particular convention meant a mix of writers, editors, publishers, and a few others. They were colleagues mostly and the focus of their panel would be pretty professional. Less, "will they end up together" questions and more, "what is your process" questions. Dean didn't go to college and never enjoyed dissecting literature in school—he always thought overanalyzing sucked the fun right out of reading a good book—so he wasn't really looking forward to a bunch of literature snobs dissecting, or trying to get him to dissect, his book. Or Castiel's, although Dean hadn't actually read those book.

Should he have?

Before he could give into the next wave of uncertainty that seemed ready to roll in at the thought, Ellen joined them up on the stage. She grinned at Dean and then at Castiel, her eyes softening slightly at the other man, possibly because of how lost he looked up on stage like that.

"All right, guys, I'm just going to introduce you two and then you can just go," she told them, her confidence in their abilities to do this making Dean uncomfortable. What was it with him and overreactions when it came to Castiel? If he had just gotten over his embarrassment from their meeting, maybe they could have freaking planned something for this stupid thing. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Okay, everyone, quiet down, quiet down."

The room fell silent at Ellen's voice, unmicrophoned though it was. She tended to have a pretty big presence—there was a reason that she had been able to easily take over her husband's business and then make it flourish despite having had relatively little experience before he died and left it to her—so it wasn't surprising to Dean that she could quiet a crowd like that so quickly.

After that, she introduced herself, Dean and Castiel, and the panel started. If Dean had had any real time to worry, he would have thought now that there was really no need. Questions were ringing out of the audience before Ellen had even fully stepped off the stage. A lot of them were directed at Dean—how he managed to stay away from formulaic plotlines in a crime series, why he had decided to have a strong heroine as her protagonist (to which he had joyfully quoted Joss Whedon)—but many were aimed at Castiel as well. Every time someone started with, "This is for Castiel," the man actually jumped in his seat just slightly and looked shocked. It was as if after each question he convinced himself that no one else would ask another one. Dean found himself way too entertained by watching the man next to him, distracted every once in a while from answering questions.

Somehow, and Dean really wasn't sure how since it was mostly a jumbled blur, they made it through alive. Ellen came back up on stage to usher them off and Dean found himself actually pretty sad to go. He felt like they had just begun to settle in, getting comfortable with the crowd and, surprisingly (at least for Dean), with each other. It wasn't like he had forgotten that little kiss, it was just that he remembered the randomly quirky and clever wit of the otherwise awkward Castiel from dinner last night. This was the Castiel he had so enjoyed yesterday, who had inspired him to say weirdly kind words to before the panel. He had a hard time reconciling this obviously intelligent man with the soft, plump lips that kept coming to mind.

"That was, uh, pretty awesome actually," Dean said once they were safely off the stage and away from any microphones again.

Castiel's lips quirked upward and he agreed, "Yes. Yes, it was."

They shared a nervous laugh and then Dean said, "You know, I've never actually read your book…"

Castiel didn't look surprised at all. In fact, if the way he had been reacting to the questions earlier was any indication, it didn't seem that Castiel really thought anyone had read his book.

"I mean, I got some idea what it was about just now, but, uh,"—_god he was so awkward, why was he so freaking awkward?—_"I mean, I'd like to. You know. Read it. Do you think you're gonna write more? Like a sequel or whatever?"

And then Castiel was smiling, for real smiling, and Dean knew that he had somehow managed to say the right thing.

"I don't think it will be a sequel, per se," Castiel answered confidently. Like Dean, it was when he was in the middle of a story that he felt most in his element. His stories he could talk about for days, and Dean could tell that immediately from the excitement in his voice.

"It will be part of the same general story, the same universe, but I don't intend for it to be mandatory to read both books," he continued.

They were walking down the hall, back toward the lounge area again, and if Castiel noticed how close they were to one another he certainly didn't say anything about it. Dean didn't either, despite how painfully aware he was of it. He didn't make a move to distance himself either, though he couldn't have said why. He justified that it was because of how quietly Castiel spoke, and maybe that was a part of it. Maybe.

The thing was… it didn't seem to matter suddenly. He wasn't sure what had changed. Probably seeing Castiel so confident all of a sudden, and not in the contemptuous way he had been when he snapped at Dean the day before. No, this was a quiet confidence that came from years and years of living inside his own head more than out in the world. It was something that bled into his words during the panel and continued to now. It was something that was weirdly attractive to Dean even as his mind shied away from the details. He was too fresh out of a relationship (okay that was like a year ago, but still) and too afraid of commitment (there was a reason he was divorced) to even begin to contemplate the growing attraction he felt towards the man next to him.

He knew the difference in what he was feeling immediately—knew without knowing that his feelings toward this man were coming on far too deeply and far too quickly. The way he spoke shouldn't be enough to make Dean wonder suddenly if they could be friends, be something more than colleagues.

He had only met the man yesterday. And like he had confirmed with himself earlier, he wasn't gay. If he wasn't quite as straight as he mostly advertised, well, that didn't mean that he should want to go jump the bones of the first guy who freaking kisses his cheek. Even if that guy did have the most fucking blue eyes he's ever seen and lips that don't look like they belong on a man's face (yet manage somehow to fit on Castiel's perfectly).

He was lonely though and a lonely guy could want a friend. Wanting friends was totally normal.

He let out a relieved breath and managed to laugh at something Castiel said (he was fairly sure it was intended to be funny, even if he hadn't been paying quite as much attention to the other man's words as he should have been). That was it. He wanted to be Castiel's friend.

Feeling a renewed sense of self-assurance, Dean sat across from Castiel at one of the more private tables and let himself relax. He could have a friend. He could be friends with a blue eyed god whose hair looked like sex as much as his voice sounded like it.

Wait. What?


	7. Jo Ships Destiel

_Sorry for the delay! Had some issues paying my tuition and was on the phone with student accounting and the bank basically all weekend. Here's a longer chapter to make up for it. Enjoy! _

He hadn't meant to kiss him. Kissing people, especially other men, was socially unacceptable, no matter how much you liked them. As if this whole convention wasn't difficult enough already, what with his rocky and rather sudden relationship with his idol, he had to go and do something stupid like that.

The funny thing was that the earth didn't swallow him up (like he was silently praying it would) and Dean didn't say anything. Stared. Gaped. Became really awkward. But he didn't mention it, didn't even do anything mean. Castiel had to admit that he was just waiting for Dean to turn on him, waiting for the other man to realize how weird that kiss had been—didn't his brothers tell him over and over again that he needed to act more normal?—but it never came. Quite to the contrary, Dean slid easily back into an almost comfortable companionship again, like they had shared over dinner last night.

Castiel blushed at the thought. It wasn't like anything had happened, but there was something about the man that struck Castiel in a way that very few people ever had. In fact, he wasn't sure anyone had ever really had such an effect on him so quickly. It was strange and it made Castiel think of what Gabriel would say. He would probably taunt him about his "crush". Castiel shuddered at the thought of Gabriel finding out. It wasn't that Gabriel was bad or anything (okay, it was definitely that, at least in part), it was just that Gabriel had a weird way of showing his brotherly protectiveness as soon as Castiel show any kind of interest in anyone. The fact that Castiel did so pretty rarely didn't help.

Letting out a sigh, Castiel tried to push those thoughts aside. Perhaps he did have a crush on the other man. Who could blame him? He wrote Castiel's favorite books, he was possibly the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on and he was charming beyond belief.

If Castiel cursed, he would probably be cursing himself right now because it was so painfully obvious that Dean Winchester was straight as the road to Vegas. He was also possibly the most beautiful man Castiel had ever laid his on, but that might just be beyond the point.

Now, after their panel together, Castiel found himself sitting across from Dean at the hotel restaurant again. Dean was currently trying to convert Castiel to the Church of Pie and Other Diner Food.

"How in the name of all that is holy have you never had cherry pie?" he demanded currently, his words garbled around a mouthful of the pie in question.

Castiel smiled slightly and picked at a fry.

"I was mostly raised by my brothers who did not cook much, let alone bake," Castiel responded, mesmerized as Dean's tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

"Please, I practically raised my brother, but you don't see me missing out on pie," Dean reprimanded, waving his fork around and very nearly missing splattering some of the red stuff on Castiel's white shirt.

"That's just un-American."

Castiel chuckled at Dean's vehemence and then fell promptly silent when Dean shoveled a large amount onto his fork and held it out for him. Castiel stared at the other writer with wide eyes until Dean rolled his eyes and demanded, "Eat."

Leaning forward, Castiel took a small bite off of Dean's fork, barely registering the slight surprise on the other man's face before his eyes slid close in pleasure. He let out a moan and then nodded in agreement with all of Dean's previous statement.

"I like pie," Castiel murmured, opening his eyes again just in time to catch Dean staring at him with a look that he couldn't interpret. He licked his lips again, then cleared his throat and ate the rest of the pie on his fork.

After a moment in which Dean just chewed in silence, looking anywhere but at Castiel, he finally returned, "Knew you would."

Then he smiled and Castiel let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he was pretty sure Dean was actually blushing.

He needed to figure out how to make that happen more often.

Jo was the first person to notice something was up. She was a reporter and it was her job to notice things, but this was just so glaringly obvious to her that she wondered how no one else seemed to have picked up on it yet. It wasn't all that hard to see it, considering the fact that Dean Winchester was probably about the most obvious person on the planet, not to mention the most emotionally stunted. Honestly. Sometimes she wondered if Dean had been absent the day everyone else was taught about their feelings.

If anyone had ever asked her about Dean's sexual orientation before, she wouldn't have had to think before answered that he was, of course, straight. He was probably the straightest man Jo had ever met (and maybe that should have been a clue), but looking at him now with Castiel, she began to wonder.

It wasn't anything so overt; it was the little things that she kept noticing. The way he would sometimes place his hand on Castiel's upper arm when they were talking. The fact that he had been introducing Castiel to all the things he loved (his music, his car, food). The way he seemed to be _blushing _at seemingly random intervals. It would be cute if it weren't for the fact that it was so damn painful to watch. She'd only seen Dean act like this around two other people, and those had been his first love and his ex-wife.

So what that Dean had never shown any romantic interests in a man before? So what that they had only known each other for less than two days now? There was so obviously something there that Jo just wanted to lock them in a room together until they kissed it out. This convention was only three days long—they needed to speed up this little mating dance they had going on.

Which all meant that Jo just had to step in and get things moving along. This was their last night and she didn't think she could watch Dean assert his manliness with that whore from Penguin Books again while Castiel sat obliviously by.

Her plan was simple. Dean needed to be drunk. Castiel needed to be drunk. Then they needed to be alone. And voila—the magic would happen!

Jo giggled evilly to herself. She was way too good a friend.

She put her plan into motion after the last panel had been closed and all the convention goers had moved to the lounge again to mingle some more. Someone who obviously hadn't realized how much a bunch of writers could drink had decided to spring for an open bar tonight which was really too perfect.

"Dean, bring your angel over here," Jo called out, smirking when the man in question looked at her in confusion before seeming to realize to whom she was referring. She could practically see the indignant blush from her seat halfway across the room. He flipped her off but did as she ordered anyway, grabbing Castiel at the elbow and leading him to Jo's table.

"What?" he snapped, looking annoyed—probably at having had his conversation with Castiel interrupted, Jo thought.

She just grinned at him and said, "We haven't seen each other in a million years and you're hogging the newb. I figured I'd get you both while you're here."

Dean rolled his eyes, and she could tell that he was aware that that was total bull, but didn't argue or leave.

"Castiel, how are you?" she asked, knowing from the slight look of awe that had been on his face for most of the day just how good he was. "I hope Dean hasn't been driving you completely insane."

"Hey!" Jo flashed Dean another smile but kept her attention on Castiel.

"I'm fine, thank you," Castiel responded, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

"Good, because we haven't put you through the first and most important test before you can join Harvelle's," she continued, twisting open the cap of a bottle of Jack Daniel's that she had flirted off the bartender.

Dean's eyes widened, while Castiel only looked confused.

"A test?"

"Jo, what the hell?" Dean demanded, shooting Castiel a nervous look. His concern for Castiel's well being was so cute it hurt. "You can't _haze _Cas."

Jo laughed and replied easily, "I just gotta know that he can hold his liquor. C'mon, Castiel, don't worry about Dean over there. Just because he's being a sourpuss doesn't mean we can't have fun."

Castiel sat down silently, his eyes glued to the Jack Daniels bottle with an odd look. It was obvious that Dean couldn't resist sitting next to him and then it was all downhill from there. Castiel was apparently hiding something because he took his first shot like a pro. And his second. And the tenth. And then the fifteenth. By this point, Ellen had joined them along with a veritable crowd of onlookers to watch in awe as Castiel downed shot after shot with no sign of its effect.

At shot number eighteen, he looked at Jo and said, "I think I'm beginning to feel something."

There was amazed laughter all around then bets about how much he could drink. Meanwhile, someone had gotten beers all around for the spectacle and Jo was pretty sure Dean was going to have an aneurism from how hard he was staring at Castiel. He actually missed his mouth more than once, spilling beer down his chin while he watched his new friend basically down nearly a fifth of whiskey like water.

Her plan to get Castiel drunk didn't seem to be working quite the way she had planned, but at least Dean looked like he might be getting there. He was halfway through his second beer when she placed a small glass of whiskey in front of him. Still not taking his eyes off of Castiel, who by now had had twenty shots and been cut off because Ellen didn't want to pay for "a damn ambulance when he gets alcohol poisoning", Dean downed the whiskey in front of him.

"Damn, Cas," he said in awe. "There something you're not saying?"

Castiel's brow furrowed in confusion and he responded, his speech very slightly slurred, "No. Why would you think that?"

Finally Dean cracked a smile, and then was laughing all out.

"Don't ever change," he told him, the corners of his eyes wrinkled from smiling at the dark haired man. Castiel smiled back at him but said nothing more.

Now was the hard part. After surreptitiously refilling Dean's glass a few more times, Jo decided to put phase two of her plan into action: Get Dean and Castiel Alone.

It was when Castiel tried standing from their table that she knew exactly what to do. Almost as soon as his feet hit the ground, he was falling over with the weight of all the alcohol he had consumed. Dean, knight in shining armor that he was, immediately reached out to catch him, only to stumble himself. They were both giggling like idiots, but at least Dean now had Castiel leaning on him, his arm wrapped around the older man's waist.

"Uh, Dean, I think we should probably get Cas up to his room," Jo recommended, slipping Castiel's arm over her own should. No way would she leave this up to chance. She needed to be there right up until they found each other's tongues and stopped circling one another.

Dean nodded drunkenly, a big grin on his face, and helped her bring a still giggling Castiel to the elevator. Somehow, miraculously, they managed to get the man (who seemed very determined to lay his head on Dean's shoulder) up to his room in tact despite the fact that Dean was equally as drunk and Jo was trying to take most of Castiel's weight.

"Where's your room key, Cas?" Dean asked, releasing him in order to start patting down his pockets. He swayed dangerously, but remained standing, which seemed like good news to Jo considering the fact that him falling asleep would ruin her plan entirely.

"In my pocket," Castiel responded, smiling dreamily at Dean as Dean tried awkwardly to reach into his pockets without touching too much. He didn't manage to avoid touching at all and Jo would have to have been blind not to see the change in Castiel's pants at that—not that she was looking.

His face red, Dean reached over Castiel's shoulder to place the key in the door behind him. The door opened, their eyes locked, and Jo knew she had finished her work here.


	8. Alcohol vs Heterosexuality

_My poor, dear readers, I am soo sorry for how long this has taken! I'll do my best to be better, but I can't make any promises. School started! Which means I am now much, much busier. Alas. Luckily, we are coming near the end of our tale (sort of, I think…). So enjoy the much awaited hotel room scene and thank you all for your patience! _

If either of them had been sober, they may have been suspicious of the fact that Jo pushed them into a hotel room and then abandoned them. They also may have realized that it was no accident that they were both totally wasted. Fortunately for Jo's plan (and not so fortunately for Dean's 'heterosexuality'), neither of them was sober at this point and both had lost enough of their inhibitions for this to seem like a pretty freaking good idea.

Having been pushed into Castiel's hotel room by his (probably soon to be ex) friend, Dean fell into the other man's arms in such a way that might have been more romantic if Castiel had retained more of his motor abilities. As it was, Dean found himself stumbling to the floor on top of a giggling Castiel. They were both definitely going to feel that fall in the morning, but for now neither seemed to notice the impact. Instead, they fell silent, simultaneously realizing the position they were in. For the first time in the last two days, Dean didn't question the strength of his feelings toward this man he hardly knew, didn't even think about the fact that this was the first time in a long time that he had touched another guy like this. The first time he had ever _felt_ anything for a guy.

No. Instead he was thinking about the way Cas was looking up at him with a stunned look in his eyes, with pupils shot wide. The way his body felt beneath Dean's, all lean muscle and hard surfaces. How Castiel's hands had somehow found their way to Dean's neck and how his lips seemed to get bigger and closer. Maybe there should have been more hesitation on his part, but just then Castiel's lips were too temptingly close and besides Dean tended to believe you should do everything once—and Castiel seemed pretty willing.

Before he could over think it, Dean leaned down and removed the gap between their mouths, pressing his lips against the other man's probably too hard. Rather than complaining, however, Castiel leaned up to meet him, welcoming Dean's mouth against his own with a shocking amount of grace for someone as drunk as he was. It was, admittedly, a rather clumsy kiss at first but they seemed to find their rhythm quickly enough, opening their mouths and adding tongue to the mix.

Dean moan, carding his hands through Castiel's hair, his thoughts completely obliterated and leaving him little more than a mass of sensations that centered completely around the man squirming pleasantly beneath him.

"Dean," Castiel gasped before his mouth was again covered. Licking the roof of Dean's mouth, Castiel let out a groan that sent shivers down Dean's spine and shooting heat elsewhere. Pulling away again, Cas said the magic word.

"_Bed_."

Dean nodded, unable to form coherent words, and fumbled to get himself into some semblance of a standing position, trying simultaneously to help Cas do the same. Castiel managed to get into a sitting position before he was leaning completely into Dean, kissing his neck wetly and then grinning at him. Dean licked his lips, unable to look away and then pulled Castiel up further, managing to get him up just long enough to push him towards the bed. Landing gracelessly on his back, Castiel pulled Dean down with him, tugging at his shirt impatiently and sliding his hands beneath it.

Despite being the one on top, and obviously the one in better control of his motor functions (though not by much, truth be told) Dean felt as if Cas was the one in control of the situation. Yet another command in his gravelly tone had Dean moving away to hastily discard his shirt and toss it to the side, followed immediately by his belt.

He wasn't quite sure when, but Cas had somehow managed to move himself further onto the bed—probably when he pushed Dean away with the command to strip—and now lied sprawled out with his legs spread just slightly. To Dean's intoxicated eyes, he looked like a king or a god merely waiting to be worshipped. Dean might not have been religious, but this was the sort of service he could get behind.

He giggled. _Get behind_. Get it?

Castiel looked confused for a moment at Dean's soft laughter, but Dean wiped the look off his face by returning the task at hand and unbuttoning his pants. It took more concentration than Dean was happy with, his fingers not cooperating, but a few tries later and Dean had shucked his pants too. Left only in a pair of green boxers, Dean fell back to the bed, climbing on top of Castiel slowly. He took his time moving over the older man's body, just taking in even inch of him. The most obvious thing was, of course, how vastly overdressed he was.

Annoyed, Dean plucked at Castiel's button up shirt and, knowing that Castiel was never going to be able to do it himself nor wanting the take the time with it, Dean pulled it open without bothering with the buttons themselves. Satisfied with the sight before him, Dean lowered his lips to Castiel's chest, pressing against him and simply kissing and licking ever bit he could get at.

"God, you're so fucking perfect," Dean murmured harshly, taking a moment to look up into the other man's lust filled eyes. They were nearly black with his desire, his lips and skin stained red with it. It was almost too much to bear, too much for Dean to handle just then. Almost.

With a surprising amount of strength, Castiel again asserted his control of the situation by yanking Dean up and over him so that Dean was now straddling the man below him.

"C-Cas…" Dean's voice broke and he knew that if he hadn't been already, he was completely and utterly gone now. Unable to help himself, he rubbed himself against the heat between his legs, grinning when Castiel moaned loudly and he felt just how much he was also enjoying this. Still rolling his hips against Castiel, Dean leaned down to kiss his mouth again, snaking his tongue beneath his lips and enjoying how quick the response was.

He really wasn't going to last much longer and he knew it. It was such a strange thing to be this far gone just from kissing and, yeah okay, a hell of a lot of rubbing, but Dean wasn't exactly thinking at the moment. Instead he reached his hand beneath them and began to tug at the button of Castiel's pants. When that didn't work, he leaned back and used both hands. This time he succeeded and oh what a success it was. No longer restrained by the zipper, Castiel's erection sprung nearly free, covered only by his underwear now. Dean quickly rectified that, grasping the other man's erection with more confidence than he probably should have felt considered how little experience he had with this.

Castiel let out a shaky breath, his whole body reacting with a shudder, and bucked up into Dean's hand. Dean smiled down at the cock in his hands, teasingly stroking his thumb over the head. Castiel groaned as if in pain and muttered Dean's name admonishingly. When Dean continued to merely tease, he began to buck more before reaching down and grasping at Dean through his boxers.

Dean gasped, in shock and in pleasure, and then relented. He stroked up and down the other man's erection like he might his own, watching Castiel's face closely and loving the nearly pained expression he saw there. Added to his enjoyment of merely watching Castiel's pleasure, the man in question had managed to snake his hand into Dean's boxers and was currently trying to ring Dean out dry in the most pleasurable way possible.

Considering how near the edge they had been already, it was really no surprise when both men came at nearly the same time, spilling semen onto Castiel's chest and Dean's hand. Panting lightly, Dean looked around for something to wipe him off with, settling on one of the pillows on the bed. Exhausted from a long day, mixed with what they had just done and the effects of the alcohol, Dean lowered himself so that he was still mostly on top of the other man but now with his head on Cas's shoulder and only one leg stretched over him. Castiel placed a wet, yet somehow still pleasant kiss against Dean's forehead before letting his head fall back as well.

He knew he was about to pass out, could feel the blackness coming for him and all Dean could think was how glad he was this had happened. In an odd and very short moment of sobriety before he lost all consciousness, Dean decided that this was how he wanted to fall asleep every night.


	9. Dean Winchester's Muse

_Hellooo! I know it has been _ages_ and I sincerely apologize! I'm back and we are coming to the end of our story! I hope I made up for the long wait…? Please enjoy! _

When Dean awoke the next morning, it was with a dry mouth, a headache and the sensation of soft hair tickling at his throat. Sighing, he just lay like that for a long moment, his dreams already forgotten but leaving behind a warm feeling that enveloped him now. Of course, that warmth could also be from the other body currently pressed up against him…

Blinking his eyes open, the writer stared in shock at the dark head of hair currently pressed up against his chin and then took in the rest of the person he was in bed with. Castiel, his limbs toned but paler than Dean's, was currently wrapped around Dean, his head tucked into the younger man's neck. His breaths came out steady and calming, and he looks so innocent lying there in Dean's arms.

His breath hitching, Dean waits for the inevitable freakout, because having thoughts about guys sometimes (and maybe a little bit more, okay) and having gay sex (or well, almost anyway) were two completely different things. Very, very different.

So he should be freaking out. He took a deep breath, pulling away from Castiel enough to sit up and look down at the other man, and carded his fingers through the other man's shockingly soft brown hair while he waited. And waited. The thing was… it hadn't felt wrong, or degrading. It had just felt _good_. It had felt _right. _He felt better than he had since the divorce, possibly even since before then.

And if that was the feeling he got from something he had been so afraid of basically his entire life, maybe—just maybe—he shouldn't be so afraid of it. Looking down at Castiel now, he couldn't think that this was so wrong or even shameful. A strange feeling that felt strangely like hope spread through him and he felt his lips curving upward into a smile. To think that just two days ago, he had hardly even known this man existed. Just two days ago, he had barely been able to peel himself away from the empty word doc on his computer in order to get on a plane to this convention, and now he felt as if he should be thanking someone.

Speaking of that word doc…

Castiel hardly even moved when Dean pulled away even more, trying to slip out of bed before the other man woke. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he stood and padded to the bathroom to clean himself up and relieve himself before he did anything else. Feeling a stroke of thoughtfulness, he filled one of the glasses from the bathroom with water and set it out on the bedside table for Castiel. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was early enough that he could probably leave this room without anyone being the wiser. A small smile on his face, he collected his clothes from where they had landed on the floor last night and got dressed. Then he made his way back to his own room as quietly as possible.

Castiel had only been drunk a handful of times in his life, and he had _never _had that much before. The first signs that he had most certainly not drank responsibly last night were probably the throbbing in his head and the sand paper mouth, but the pain caused by the crack of light invading on his hotel room through the curtains was kind of a giveaway as well.

A pained groan passed his lips as he forced one eye open to survey his surroundings, replaced by a sound that was right next to prayerful when he saw the glass of water on the table. With as little movement as possible, the man grabbed the water off the table and brought it to his lips with a relieved breath, reveling in the cool feel of water running down his throat before lying back again.

_What the hell happened? _

Still not quite ready to pull himself up out of bed, Castiel tried to run yesterday's events through his head in order to clarify for himself how on earth he had ended up in bed with a hangover like he had never before imagined.

He remembered the panel, then eating with Dean… then there was the bar with Ellen and Jo… Yes, that would explain the hangover… but what else? There was something else at the edge of his mind, just beyond his grasp. He couldn't remember what had happened after the shots with the Harvelle women, but there was definitely something there.

Sighing, the author moved to sit up as slowly as possible, doing his best not to make his headache any worse. As he did, he felt the tell tale signs of something dry and cracking on the skin of his chest and was horrified when he realized what it was. Looking around him, he tried his best to piece together what in God's name happened.

Flashes of memory came back to him then as he strained to recall who he had taken to bed with him last night, many of them of Dean Winchester. Slowly the memories crept into his mind's eyes, and he remembered Dean helping him up to his room, Dean kissing him, Dean licking his chest and making him come.

Oh god, Dean. Dean who was now nowhere to be seen, who had a reputation for one night stands so bad that even Castiel—who never could keep up with gossip—had heard. Dean who was _straight_.

A low laugh left him at that last thought, because it was very clear that rumor at least had been false. The humor disappeared pretty quickly, however, because obviously the first rumor had been true. Dean was gone, leaving Castiel with an ache that seemed strange considering that he had only met the other author two days ago and had spent the first day bitterly disappointed with him. Admittedly, he had had a sort of crush on the man before then, but it was in a strictly celebrity sort of way. What he was feeling now seemed too strong for such a short period of acquaintance.

Also, Dean was _gone_.

His cheeks flushing with embarrassment and anger at the realization that he was just one in a line of Dean Winchester's lays, he forced himself out of that bed and into the shower so that he could scrub all the evidence of last night off his body. He may perhaps have scrubbed a little harder than necessary, but oh well.

He was being childish. Of course the other man wouldn't feel the same way he did—they hardly knew each other. It wasn't as if he had made any expectations clear, and the younger man didn't exactly hide his one-night stands. It was stupid of Castiel to feel hurt by the other man steeling away before he woke up, which is why he walked downstairs again, fully prepared to ignore the other man for the rest of the convention (which was, thank god, only the rest of the day).

Apparently, Dean didn't quite get that memo. The minute Castiel stepped into the hotel's breakfast room, he spied Dean sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a muffin sitting next to his laptop as he typed away. As if he could sense the other man's presence, Dean looked up and met Castiel's eyes with a bright grin and a wave before going back to his work.

Thoroughly confused now, Castiel poured himself a coffee and grabbed a piece of toast before sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room from the man he was very carefully not looking at—o very carefully, in fact, that he didn't notice Jo sitting down in front of him until she kicked him under the table.

"Well?" she exclaimed as soon as she had his attention. Castiel just stared at her and she stole his toast before clarifying in an exasperated tone, "Did you guys…?"

She gestured with his toast some sort of sign that didn't look even vaguely like anything at all before taking a bite and giving him an expectant look. He still said nothing, but she apparently had her reporter hat on this morning.

"Casti_el_," she pronounced his name as if it gave her no end of vexation at having to do so. She didn't repeat her question, but Castiel was very aware of her reputation. She hadn't won two Pulitzer Prizes in reporting for nothing.

Not feeling particularly desirous to experience Jo's own version of the Spanish Inquisition, Castiel admitted, "Yes. We did."

She squealed and clapped her hands in delight, attracting the attention of everyone in the room, including Dean himself. He looked up, noticed Castiel sitting at the other end of the room, and shot him a confused look before going back to his typing.

It obviously took a moment, but Jo seemed to finally catch on that Castiel wasn't nearly so pleased as she was.

"Wait, what's wrong?" she asked.

Figuring he had already revealed the worst of it, he stole back what was left of his toast and admitted, "He left. Before I even woke up this morning."

She gaped, shot a scowl in Dean's direction and then bemoaned, "But you guys were clicking so well. I saw the way he looked at you… This doesn't make sense!"

Castiel sighed but didn't respond, choosing instead to take a drink of the hotel's attempt at good coffee. He was thinking the same things himself to be quite honest. He too had thought he and Dean had made a connection, beyond just the sexual. Apparently he was wrong though.

Jo stood up abruptly and Castiel let her go, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to care what it was she was doing. He didn't care at least until he realized she was stalking over to Dean's table.

Gaping despite himself, he watched her slam his computer close. Dean jumped and then glared up at Jo, saying something that Castiel imagined went along the lines of, "What the fuck?" Jo responded by hitting him over the head and pointing in Castiel's direction before starting what Castiel could only assume was one hell of a rant.

Burning red with embarrassment, Castiel tried his best to disappear, praying to whoever was listening to please, _please _make him invisible. Either no one was listening, or they actually knew what was going to happen next, because his prayer wasn't answered and Dean was now coming toward him.

"Cas? What the hell?" he demanded. _Oh god_, Castiel thought. Dean was angry. Castiel realized suddenly that he was probably mad that Cas had blabbed about the night before.

"I'm sorry," he said automatically, looking down into his coffee instead of up at the younger man because the coffee at least didn't seem particularly interested in this situation.

"Sorry? What the hell for?" Dean looked thoroughly flustered by this point and now Castiel was confused as well.

"Cas, I didn't _leave_," Dean exclaimed. Castiel frowned and he clarified, his cheeks turning red, "I mean, I left, but not like that!"

When it was obvious that Castiel wasn't getting whatever it was that the other writer was trying to tell him, Dean leaned down and pressed his lips haphazardly against his. Startled, the older man just sat there without reacting for a long moment until Dean finally pulled away.

"I didn't mean for you to think…" he started, brushing a hand through his hair and moving to sit down in the chair Jo had vacated minutes before. "I was just looking at you and you were so… And then I got this idea, and you know how that is, right? I couldn't let it go. I've been in a block for _months_, Cas."

He looked up at Castiel again, his expression almost shy, and Castiel just wanted to kiss him.

So he did.

Smiling against the other man's mouth, Cas murmured, "I guess that makes me your muse, doesn't it?"


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Dean sighed and paused his writing for a moment to look out the window of his shiny new San Francisco apartment. It was mid afternoon, but still fog lingered over the town and Dean couldn't help but smile to himself about how well the weather went with his work today.

_Pamela slammed on her breaks and her poor car screeched to a stop less than six inches from the shadowy figure in the road, obscured by the fog. She had known it was probably a bad idea to go out driving with such poor visibility, but luckily enough for her, recklessness was well within her skill set. At least she hadn't _actually_ hit anyone. _

_ With her lights hitting the fog just so, the figure in front of her seemed lit up from within, surrounded by light. _An angel.

_No. Not an angel. A reaper—Pamela's reaper. _

Taking a sip of his coffee, Dean tried to keep himself from grinning like an idiot, but it was hard. What had felt like the end of his series less than a year ago had somehow turned into a completely new twist on things and he knew exactly whom he had to thank for that. It was the same person whom he had to thank for his good mood today—and the blowjob that had woken him up this morning.

That stupid grin that he would _never _admit to got even bigger and he leaned back in his seat, thinking back on the last year. Their apartment still wasn't totally moved into, as attested by those damn boxes sitting in the living room and judging him for not unpacking them. But it looked like them. It looked like a mixture of his life—the crappy electric guitar his dad had bought him when he was sixteen standing unused in its stand by the television, the pictures of his mom, of Sam in frames on the bookshelf—and Castiel's—the old books on the shelves next to Dean's pictures, the blue tie hanging over the back of the couch. This was their life. Together.

God it made him happy.

Feeling like a total sap, Dean looked back at his computer and tried to channel the mysterious feeling had had going earlier but it wasn't coming. A glance at the time had him wondering where exactly his angel was. He wanted to share his good mood, maybe return that blowjob.

As if in answer to his prayer, the sound of someone fumbling with the key to their apartment broke him from his thoughts. Biting his cheek, he tried to wipe that excited smile off his face, or at the very least make himself look slightly less like an energetic dog. It didn't work. The face that greeted Castiel when he opened the door was a stupidly happy one, and one that made Cas feel pretty stupidly happy back.

It wasn't like they didn't have their moments. Dean was loud and obnoxious. Castiel was awkward and didn't get his jokes half the time. And he snored—Dean didn't think he slept the first few night they were together. Also, there was the whole thing where Dean had never been in a relationship with a man before. Even what he had had with Lisa had been completely different. With Lisa it had been easy to picture, easy to make happy… and then easy to fall apart. Looking back, he realized that maybe he hadn't been as good of a husband to her as he maybe could have.

The thing was… Cas didn't let him get away with the whole fear of commitment/squicky fear of dating guys thing. When he tried to ditch Cas two weeks after the convention, Cas had showed up at his door with flowers—freaking flowers! What was he, a chick?—and announced that they were going on a date. Then when Dean had his inevitable Big Gay Freakout, Castiel had given him a blowjob and told him in that monotone voice of his to kindly get over it and come back to bed.

So maybe Dean had some pretty good reasons to be happy, and maybe Castiel had some pretty good reasons to be too.

At the moment, he had one of those Trader Joe's bags that he insisted on carrying around for groceries (the guy was freaking convinced that he was going to save the world, one grocery bag at a time), with what looked like a champagne bottle.

"We celebratin' something?" he asked, eyebrows raised at the bottle. Castiel's eyes crinkled and his lips twitched.

"As a matter of fact we are," he announced, setting the grocery bag on the entry table and pulling his damp trench coat off. He didn't continue or explain further and Dean had a panicked moment in which he began to wonder what the hell he had missed. Was it some kind of anniversary? His eyes flicked surrepticiously over to the date on his computer. No. Nothing he could think of. Cas's birthday wasn't for a month… Dean's birthday already passed…

"What are we celebrating?" he asked, clearing his throat nervously.

That made Castiel smile and Dean was annoyed to realize that the little bastard had done that on purpose, knowing fully well that Dean's first response was to freak out.

Pulling today's tie (the one that Dean had finally bought him because that blue thing was going to die if Cas insisted on wearing it every time he wore a suit) loose, Castiel took a deep breath and came to sit with Dean.

"I spoke with Ellen today," he informed his boyfriend calmly. Dean licked his lips in anticipation because champagne meant good news, not to mention how long Cas had been gone. Part of the reason they had decided to get an apartment in San Francisco was to be closer to Ellen, which meant they could now go into the office to see her rather than communicating by phone. Castiel said it was better this way because they got to have a real relationship with her now. Dean thought it just made it easier for her to nag them…

Anyway. That's where Castiel had spent a good portion of today if Dean had to guess and that in itself was a good thing. Long meetings usually meant paperwork and paperwork usually meant contracts, contracts meant book deals… It was all _good_.

So when Castiel finally opened his mouth to tell Dean the news, he already sort of knew what he was going to say. That wasn't a bad thing and that didn't make it any less awesome when he finally said, "They're signing me on for three more books. They think my angels should be an entire series."

Dean hardly waited for Cas to finish before he was throwing his arms around his boyfriend's neck and kissing him.

"I knew they would," he murmured against those chapped lips, smiling that stupid, sappy smile and not caring.

Castiel kissed him back and then pulled away to go get the champagne. He brought it to the kitchen in silence, buzzing with a sort of excitement that Dean knew most people wouldn't be able to see. Pulling out two champagne glasses, Dean pulled him in for another kiss before opening the bottle.

"To your new series," he cheered, pouring the champagne and handing Castiel his glass.

Castiel was quiet for a moment longer and then, looking at Dean from under thick lashes, he said, "To you."

When Dean only stared at him in confusion, that quiet Castiel smile grew and he clarified, "My muse."


End file.
